The Cheesemaker's House

Chapter One

It is the sort of day when the roads melt. So William and I don’t take them. Instead I clamber over the garden fence and pull some of the chickenwire away so that he can squeeze under the lowest bar. I must remember to put it back securely later; I’d never forgive myself if he disappeared over the fields towards the Moors.

The grass ripples around my feet and ankles, filled with the buzz of summer. William’s lead tightens around my hand and his nose quivers with excitement. We pick our way through the thistles, eager to reach the shade on the other side of the pasture.

Close up I can see that the trees mark the bank of a beck. I resist the temptation to dip my toes into it so we wander along the path towards the River Swale. The stream bends sharply and there are alders on either side, their boughs arching together into a tunnel of dark green.

As we approach the river I hear splashing; not panic, nor playful exuberance, but a rhythmic, solitary sound. I tie William’s lead to a tree and creep forward.

My view is restricted by the undergrowth but I catch sight of a man swimming in the river. His buttocks are taut and white as he ploughs through the water, droplets flying from his arms where they break the surface. He moves out of my field of vision and the splashing stops. I hold my breath.

When he reappears he is floating with the current, arms akimbo and eyes shut beneath the fair hair plastered across his forehead. His upturned nose and firm chin jut from the water. They don’t seem to fit together and are separated, rather than joined, by a pair of generous lips curved into the merest trace of a smile. Then he is gone, and I am left staring at the rippling water.

I am about to move away when I hear splashing again and the pattern repeats itself. I feel guilty invading the swimmer’s privacy but there is no reason to drag myself away until William whimpers. I turn to see what is wrong, but my top catches on a dog rose. I ease it away from the thorns, one by one.

There is an enormous crash of water followed by silence. My T-shirt rips as I yank myself free and run up the bank to get a clearer view of the river. It takes me seconds, but the surface of the water is completely undisturbed. The Swale flows freely, calm and clear.

I cast around me to see where the swimmer might be. I am on a grassy knoll three or four feet above the water; the only break in the undergrowth which lines the banks. A couple of hundred yards to my left is an old stone bridge which spans the river in three arches. On the bank opposite willows dip their branches.

It is too long now for the swimmer to have held his breath. A cloud passes over the sun as I scan the water, but the only sign of life is a heron feeding close to the bridge. I am suddenly cold, inside and out, and I hug my arms around me. My fingers meet the stickiness of blood where the thorns ripped into my flesh.

Chapter Two

The beaten up Land Rover pulls out in front of me onto the High Street but it’s my lucky day and the parking space is mine. I ease the gearstick into reverse and look over my shoulder, edging backwards until I am perfectly aligned with the kerb. I didn’t screw it up, either – I must be feeling more relaxed.

It surprises me how small things make the difference when everything around you is new; the sheer relief of not having to hunt for the pay & display when you don’t know your way around town, the simple pleasure of parallel parking well. I pat the bonnet of my car and set off in search of a newsagent.

The pavement on this side of the road is narrow and although you wouldn’t call it crowded if it were Reading, an elderly lady with a shopping trolley jockeying for position with a double buggy probably passes for rush hour in Northallerton. Age triumphs over beauty when a man in a suit holds open the door of Barkers Department Store; as the pushchair stops in front of me I glimpse a blonde toddler chewing a banana with a baby sleeping beside her.

The glass front of the newsagent jars with the elegant Georgian structure it has been rammed into, but looking around I find this is typical of the town. I push the door open; the place reeks of newsprint and spilt milk – I try to hold my nose but it makes my breath come in funny little gulps so I grab a copy of the Yorkshire Post, all but throw my money on the counter and escape into the fresh air.

I need a coffee. Badly. I spy Costa’s opposite but from an opening to my left comes a wondrous waft of baking mixed with roasting beans. I skipped breakfast and I didn’t even know I was hungry.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the shade of the alleyway. I grope my way down the side of a haberdashery and past a florist before the paving opens out onto the edge of the supermarket car park. It isn’t a promising location, but the door of the café is clean and newly painted so I go in.

The coffee shop is completely devoid of customers and at first there seems to be no-one serving, but then a fresh faced guy of about thirty pops up from behind the counter. I stare at him, open mouthed, because he is the man I watched swim in the river yesterday. Same fair hair falling forwards over his oval face; same generous lips; same jutting chin.

Can I help you? He looks at me curiously as I continue to gape. Err…do I have a smudge of coffee on my nose or something?

I manage to recover myself. He is so beautifully turned out, perfectly shaven and wearing a crisply ironed linen shirt, that he would be the last person in the world to have a smudge on his nose. I’m sorry. It’s just I thought I recognised you from somewhere, that’s all.

He smiles politely. Strange how that sometimes happens, isn’t it? Now, what can I get you?

A skinny latte and... I scan the display of cakes, temptingly mouth-watering in their glass cabinet. Oh my God – are they all homemade?

My business partner, Adam, bakes them. He’s very gifted in the kitchen department. He leans forward. I’d go for a caramel shortbread if I were you; it’s still warm and gooey from the oven.

I hope he will not notice that my hands are shaking as I pick up my tray and take it to a table by the big picture window. I spread my newspaper in front of me. But I’m not looking at it – I’m not even looking at the shoppers walking past; I’m wondering how the hell he got out of the river without me seeing him.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m really pleased that he did. He disappeared so suddenly and so completely I’ve been worrying all night and fretting over whether I should have raised the alarm. And when I did sleep of course I dreamt about him; that we were standing on the riverbank together and he kissed me so gently, reverently, almost. The brush of his lips on my cheek lingered long after I woke.

It’s quite a while since I’ve been kissed like that, if at all. Neil was my first boyfriend – we met when I was nineteen – and we were never much into demonstrations of affection. We were comfortable with each other though, happily married – or so I thought – and probably best friends. It was just a shame he never told me that being friends wasn’t enough. Instead he acted like every bloody stereotypical businessman and had an affair with his secretary – a clinging, doe-eyed blonde – the exact opposite of me.

I am so average it must have been really hard for him to find my opposite. I’m not that tall – but she was tiny; I’m not that thin – but she was all curves. But my hair is dark, so I suppose hers was something different. As was her down-with-the-kids dress sense and text-speak vocabulary. It made dreary old Neil seem like her father.

And made me wonder if, at the tender age of thirty-five, I’d become my mother. It does make you think when your man runs off with someone else. I mean, I can’t be that awful – I did used to get quite a few wolf whistles from the mechanics at work. Even so, when I moved up here I had a serious wardrobe clear out and although my tops are now much lower and my jeans much tighter, I do still prefer to speak in proper sentences.

Ridiculous as it sounds, I could have probably coped with the affair, but the secretary fell pregnant and Neil said he had to do the right thing. Despite the fact the bastard never wanted children. But what about the right thing by me? He was shocked when I yelled and cried and screamed; he said he’d never imagined I’d felt so strongly about him, that if he had, the affair would never have happened, but now it was too late to do anything about it.

All I wanted to do was run away. My friends told me I was nuts to cut myself off from them and hide at the other end of the country, but to be honest I was frightened I might need them too much. They have their own lives; they don’t really want a bad tempered divorcee hanging around their necks, however much they protested otherwise.

The escape route was ready. Three years earlier Neil had inherited some money and we’d bought New Cottage; we were such smug marrieds we’d bought our retirement home in our early thirties, but in the great property carve up that comes with the end of a relationship I told him I wanted the cottage and he could keep the house in Reading. I think he was surprised but he was in so much of a hurry to have everything sorted out before the baby arrived he would have agreed to anything.

Maybe it was guilt too; but whatever it was I pressed home my advantage and walked away with most of our savings. Not just for the hell of it; I have to eat, after all. Plus the house needs a small fortune spending on it. That’s my plan: do it up – including the barn, which would make a fab holiday let, and if I don’t like living in Yorkshire then I can sell it and move on.

I rouse myself and shake the newspaper – that’s why I bought it, after all – to look for a builder. As I flick to the small ads I sink my teeth into the caramel slice. It is still a little warm and the shortbread crumbles deliciously over my tongue, sweet but somehow not over sickly; it has bite to it. I could get fat as a mole if I keep coming here and I’m not going to let that happen – the best bit of divorcing is the weight dropping off and now I’m an ever-so-slightly top heavy size 10 I have every intention of staying that way.

The guy from behind the counter pulls out the chair opposite me and sits down. At close quarters I am treated to a studied gaze from the darkest blue eyes I have ever seen and goosebumps tingle on the back of my arms. I’m glad I bothered to put on a bit of make-up.

More coffee? he asks.

Have I outstayed my welcome on just one cup?

No, not at all. He indicates the empty café. We don’t exactly need the table.

You should be packed, with those wonderful cakes.

Oh, we are some of the time, but then we haven’t long opened, he says, pushing his hair back from his face and running his long fingers over the top of his head. Look, what I really came over to say is that we have seen each other before, I’ve worked it out.

I am about to die of embarrassment when he continues It was in church last Sunday – St Andrew’s at Great Fencote. I sink back into my chair. He is right, I did go to church, but I’ve tried to blank the visit from my mind.

I noticed you when I was reading the lesson – we don’t often get new people. But didn’t you leave before the end?

Err, yes. I…I had a frog in my throat and I didn’t want to cough all through the sermon.

The truth of the matter is that the second hymn had been one we’d sung at my wedding and I’d started to well up. My intention had been to go outside, take a walk around the church to control myself then go back to the service. But in the far corner of the graveyard was a young woman kneeling by a freshly covered grave and that had upset me even more so I just went home.

That was nice and considerate of you. He reaches his hand across the table to shake mine. I’m Owen Maltby, by the way.

Alice Hart. I’ve just moved into New Cottage.

For a fraction of a second it feels as though he is going to drop my outstretched hand but I must have imagined it because he continues smoothly: Nice property.

It needs a bit of work doing to it though.

Is that why you’re looking at the builders’ ads?

Got it in one.

Look, I don’t want to stick my oar in, but most of the builders who are any good don’t need to advertise in the paper. There’s a guy I went to school with who’s OK…I could give you his number?

Would you? That would be very kind.

No, not kind – ulterior motive. I want you to settle in here if you’re going to come to church – there’s precious few of us under forty and we could do with bringing the average age down a bit. Before I can answer the café door opens again.

Be back in a tick, says Owen, and flies behind the counter.

Chapter Three

My mental image of a Yorkshire builder was a rotund man in a cloth cap who would exhibit a great deal of sucking of teeth when confronted with my barn. I certainly didn’t expect Richard Wainwright to be tall, dark and handsome with a couple of days of designer stubble and a gold hoop in his left ear. But then I didn’t expect a naked swimmer to be reading the lesson in church either. It’s clear I’m going to have to abandon my southern prejudices sooner rather than later if I’m going to fit in here. But I still can’t help feeling we should all be running around downing mugs of tea you can stand a spoon up in, not drinking skinny lattes.

In this aspect of his behaviour Richard doesn’t disappoint. I am already making the second pot when he reappears from his prodding and poking in the barn, drapes his long body against my kitchen doorframe and says:

I can do it, but it’s going to cost you.

I expect it to cost me, I grin at him. It’s a wreck I want to turn into a luxury holiday pad – I know that won’t come cheap.

He wanders into the kitchen and sits down at the table. I’ll need to do a proper quote, but I reckon in the region of twenty grand. It’s a lot of money – take you a while to get it back.

I’ll get it back when I sell though.

Oh, so that’s your game is it; buy – do up – sell – quick buck. He looks disapproving.

No. It’s not my game. It’s my insurance policy in case I don’t like it here.

He stretches back in his chair and picks up his tea. So why did you come? I’m curious.

Well, you mustn’t tell anybody, but I’m on the run from an international drug smuggling cartel and I thought they’d never find me in Great Fencote.

Hmm…I wouldn’t be so sure. You don’t know what evil walks the streets of Northallerton. Only last week someone was prosecuted for putting the wrong sort of yogurt pot in their recycling bin – it was all over the papers. We both burst out laughing.

Seriously, love, he carries on, if you don’t want to say then that’s your business. No-one round here’s going to mind.

I was just trying to make it sound more exciting than it is. My husband ran off with his secretary, that’s all.

It happens. My wife left me for a pen pusher at the council. Said she’d had enough of muddy boots all through the house. Each to their own, I suppose. He shrugs.

The funny thing is, I continue hesitantly, that when it happens to you, you feel like it’s never happened to anyone else. When someone else says it, you realise just how common it is.

Human nature, love. We’re not cut out to be monogamous. We get bored and we move on, that’s all there is to it. Still, if you get lonely and fancy a shag...

Let’s see what sort of builder you are first, I snap. Maybe a little too tartly, so I put on a smiley face and continue, I want to know if the muddy boots are worth it.

Richard roars with laughter.

But I don’t want a shag, although I spend some time thinking about it later, sitting on the bench by the pond, gin & tonic in hand and William dozing at my feet. What I want is time; time on my own to heal, like it says you need on the advice pages of the magazines I’ve started buying. Time to work out where I went wrong, if I’m honest, because although I have an inkling, I’m not completely sure.

You see I wasn’t very good at telling Neil I loved him – or maybe I just wasn’t good at loving him full stop. I thought that being his best friend would be enough; I thought that after the passion had gone it was all you had left and you just had to get on with it. We had settled much too young into a middle aged rut and it had only taken a whiff of excitement to break our world apart. If only we’d been able to talk about what we both wanted then we might have been OK. But I’ve never been much good at that sort of thing.

I’m just not very good at loving people full stop. After my father died I was the bitch from hell to my mother, but I suppose in my defence I thought I had good reason. I loved my father to distraction so I couldn’t understand how eager she was to replace him; I didn’t find out about her money worries until much later. Looking back it’s little wonder she couldn’t confide in a thirteen year old ball of anger and it’s probably the reason we’ve never been close since.

I didn’t cope very well with her constant stream of boyfriends and suspect I managed to put a fair few of them off. I sulked, I stropped, I wore a uniform of black leggings and shapeless sweatshirts. I had lots of girlfriends but didn’t go near a boy myself – anything male had become the enemy. I left school as soon as I could and got myself stuck in a dead end job in a pet shop.

By the time Derek started going out with my mother I was becoming heartily sick of the way I was. Derek was a straightforward and thoroughly nice man who told me he wanted to be part of our lives but not to replace my father. No-one had ever said that before. He also helped me in a practical way by lending me the money to go to a private secretarial college. I say lend, but bless him, he never asked for it back. Instead he teased me and said it was nice to have a young lady about the house instead of a feral cat.

Out went the spiky haircut and back came my natural curls. Out went endless mooning around to Smiths’ records and in came going to parties with my friends. I got a proper job at a motor dealer and shortly afterwards a proper boyfriend, Neil.

Was ours a marriage of convenience? I still don’t know. It certainly seemed convenient that he proposed when Mum and Derek were planning to retire to Spain. Like I say, I’m not too good at loving people; I suppose after losing Dad it seems too much of a risk. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t miss Neil; at first, anyway.

Just being in Yorkshire makes it easier to move on and after my second G&T I am brave enough to ask myself whether I actually want Neil back. If his car pulled into the drive, and he started to cross the lawn, I know William would race towards him. But would I? Would I want to go back to playing second fiddle to the man and his dog, to be the perfectly manicured corporate wife, and rush home from my own stressful job to cook the tea and iron his shirts? And have him grunt and heave on top of me after a few glasses of wine on a Friday night?

I reach down to scratch William’s ears.

Come on, supper time, I murmur. He looks at me gratefully and stretches. Just at this very moment, being a single woman means another gin and a fishfinger sandwich for tea. Bliss.

Chapter Four

The door of the church creaks as I push it open and I wince; I was hoping to make a quiet entrance and slip unnoticed to a seat at the back. As I pick up a prayer book from the pile on the font I notice Owen waving to me. Despite myself, I smile. He slides along his pew and gestures to the space next to him. I bow my head briefly towards the altar then join him, noticing that the wood is still warm from where he has been sitting. I catch a wholesome whiff of mint shampoo.

Hi there, I whisper.

Hello to you, Alice. His voice is smooth like honey with very little trace of an accent, but if he went to school with Richard then he must be local.

An elderly man two rows in front of us starts to turn around but his wife slaps him on the arm and his head swivels forwards again. I am desperate to laugh, but I dare not. I glance surreptitiously at Owen to find him looking for the first hymn in his book.

Owen is dressed